“Why do you cry out in that way, Cartouche?” “I scream because it is a punishment that I cannot denounce my accomplices. I have their names on the end of my tongue! They do not see that if I do not denounce them it is because I cannot move the end of my tongue! I cannot! I cannot! I cannot! And they struck with their mallet again! And they sunk the pieces of wood into my legs again! It is unjust! I cannot move the end of my tongue!” “What are they doing to you now, Cartouche?” “The doctor and the surgeon are leaning over me and feeling my pulse. They are congratulating themselves on having chosen that kind of torture, which is, they are saying to the commissioners, the least dangerous to life and the least susceptible to accidents.” “And now, Cartouche, what are they doing to you?” “They are doing nothing to me, and I regret it, for they have decided to bury the second wedge in me only a half hour after the first, and let the pain which it produced pass away, and the sensibility be entirely restored. I am looking at my judges. They have black mouths. I like the face of the executioner better. He is no more amused than I. He wants to be somewhere else. But there he comes with the second judge. They are all around me. They are over me! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!...” Never had Théophraste looked so terrible. His mouth was wide open, and his tongue seemed paralyzed. Foam was around his lips, and his eyes seemed to start out of his head. M. Lecamus looked across to M. Eliphaste, who said, when the second howl had died away, “Why do you scream, Cartouche?” “Because these torturers will not listen to the names that are on the end of my tongue.” “But you have not told us any names. You have only screamed.” “It is Cartouche they are torturing and Longuet who screams,” answered Théophraste. M. Eliphaste was taken aback by this last response. He turned toward the two silent onlookers and said in a low, trembling voice, “Then it is he who is suffering.” There was no room for doubting this truth. The fearful expressions on Théophraste’s face as he imagined the executioner forcing the wedge in, showed too plainly that though it was Cartouche whom they tortured, it was Théophraste who really suffered. M. Eliphaste seemed very concerned. Never before had such a case come before his astral scalpel. The identity of the soul had been proven, and suffering Cartouche had cried out in distress after two centuries. This cry had waited to come from the lips of Théophraste. M. Eliphaste leaned his head on his hands and prayed. After a short silence he turned to M. Lecamus and said, “We are only at the second wedge, and there are seven of them.” “Do you think my husband will have the strength to bear them?” asked Marceline. M. Eliphaste leaned over the prostrate form of Théophraste and examined his head, just as the doctor had done to Cartouche in the torture chamber.